Friday, December 22, 2006

Paul Heyman has been replaced as the creative head of ECW. Hulk Hogan is rumored to be engaged in "serious" negotiations with TNA Wrestling. And Mr. Hogan's chaste, demure daughter (seen trapped in a rapidly shrinking room at left) has sold more copies of her holocaust of an album than GHOSTFACE FUCKING KILLER has sold of his new joint?!?!?!?!

Monday, December 18, 2006

Friday, December 15, 2006

Last night, I led a candlelight procession of Italian immigrants, foodies, and the Minnesota chapter of the Arabian Facebuster Hulkamaniacs to the Mall of America to commemorate the 11 year anniversary of one of the most unexpected and unexplainable tragedies in the state of Minnesota's history -- the closing of PastaMania! Its run as top dog in the 4th floor food court was all too brief, but spectacular while it lasted, not unlike the world heavyweight title reign of one David Arquette. For those that were too young to remember or too drunk to care, PastaMania! was Hulk Hogan's labor of love and his most perfect creation, a critically lauded culinary masterpiece that not only revolutionized Italian cuisine, but redefined the significance of food in our culture.

I'll never forget my first time eating at PastaMania!...I ordered a plate of the spaghetti and Hulk-balls. The hand-rolled pasta was cooked to perfection, the aromatic sauce both rich and sweet, and the horsemeat tender and bursting with flavor. And the service was fantastic...professional, passionate, knowledgeable, and attentive. Why, Brian Knobbs must have refilled my bread basket three times! I would return again and again, each time trying a new creation: the Hulkioli, the Hulkadelle, the Hulkolini, and of course the Hulkuccine.

What was the Hulkster's secret? How could he achieve that elusive synthesis of bold and assertive flavors with a sense of delicacy, intricacy, and nuance in every dish? According to Hogan in an incredibly candid interview with Food & Wine: "At PastaMania!, our formula for success is twofold, dude. First, we select only the freshest ingredients from organic and artisanal producers. Then, we slow cook those ingredients in a microwave oven, brother." Cooking methods and techniques aside, you could really taste Hulk Hogan's heart, soul, and passion in each innovative, flawlessly executed dish. Or that could have been the horsemeat.

Why Pastamania! had to abruptly shut its doors (I mean pull down and latch its metal security gate) is a subject to contemplate at another time. I am still teeming with grief. It is too soon...the pain, still very raw. All I know is that a little part of me died that cold and dreary December morn. Thankfully, I have found a new favorite dining destination.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Mel Gibson. Keith Richards. Creed's pompous front man and all around worthless piece of crap Scott Stapp. Chris Tucker. "Hot Stuff" Eddie Gilbert. You may be asking, what do these men have in common? Do they all have the reputation for being difficult to work with? Perhaps. Did they get infected with a particularly resilient strain of gonorrhea after engaging in lewd and lascivious acts with Missy Hyatt? That certainly seems plausible. However, the answer will both astonish and appall: They have all been accused of recklessly operating a motor vehicle!!!

Thank you, anonymous YouTube user, for providing The Arabian Facebuster Driving School with this cautionary footage.

After getting fired from the USWA for committing numerous heinous atrocities, all of which likely involved some sort of mysterious white powder or a fireball, Eddie Gilbert, along with brother Doug (the Roger Clinton of the Gilbert brothers) prepare to depart the Memphis television studio for the final time. As Doug retrieves his crimson 1986 Mercury Sable from across the street, disgruntled brother Eddie gives one last beat-down to promoter Eddie Marlin in the parking lot. Jerry Lawler comes out to save Marlin and confront Gilbert. Not wanting a taste of the King's aristocratic vengeance, Gilbert retreats to the idling automobile. Brother Doug slides across the front seat into the shotgun position, alas fulfilling Eddie's dream to drive a car that cherry. Seconds later, in perhaps the most fantastically dickish, chicken-shit heel move that professional wrestling has ever witnessed, Eddie Gilbert runs over Jerry Lawler, and then drives away at prudent speed into the night, I mean late-morning. Meanwhile, Bill Dundee, a very young Double J, and a couple of unidentified neon trunk wearing, mullet sporting babyfaces rush to the King's side.

Legend has it, fans at the television taping called the Memphis police to report the vehicular assault (kayfabe rules!) and that a short time later, the police showed up at the studio looking to arrest Hot Stuff. Read more about it here and here. Enjoy this classic professional wrestling angle!

Some choose a straight and narrow. Others a more circuitous path. Dear children of the mat, the Reverend vonFury has returned from the wilderness and the lands of non to deliver warning this: choose thy path carefully lest the sweet smokey lady-like fingers of Professional Wrestling's Pepe' le Peew seductions woo you with their promises of intoxicated commercial air-line public nudity and Championship saving heart-attacks on your birthday. The Ravages it Wreaks! Gods! The Twists of Fate highs, the Swanton Bomb lows... How any man could ever dare to live his Boyhood Dream when so many of the Superstars, the Kings of the Ring, the Sky-Walkers, have fallen so far and so hard!?!? Believe in oh me my children, for I, though never truly daring the dangers of the squared circle, have inhaled the sweaty canvas must of its fateful dread living as I have lived literally snipping up scraps at its broken-table littered ringside. Its Word-Life inflatable thumb and pinky finger extend like Charon's bony hand at the river, seeking to extract payment. Your very own beloved Rev., just as a too-oftened maligned Kevin Federline, as only pure and innocent bystanders, both lost their wives to this Pro-Wrestling Bitch Goddess and her malevolent appetitites! Dear little ones, Forgive me..I fear I tire. But yes, oh yes, I will return sooner than the last time, my brethren and belfry flock with more cautionary photos and spiritual content...

In recent and fairly bizarre news, overrated has-been Diamond Dallas Page has filed a lawsuit against overrated still-is (apparently) Jay-Z, in which DDP claims that th' Jigga-man is stealing his patented "Diamond Cutter" symbol to promote the Roc-a-wear clothing line. We here at Arabian Facebuster would like to help you, the discerning wrestling fan, cut through all the legalese and get to the heart of the matter:

This lawsuit is preposterous.

If DDP (who has been hanging out in South Africa with Wesley Snipes, helping Blade with his tax dodge/motion picture Gallowwalker) thinks he's the first person in the history of history to realize that putting your thumbs and index fingers together makes a diamond, he's retarded. Furthermore, I cannot for the life of me fathom how either one of these gentlemen (?) can claim to have made one thin dime off of this ridiculous bit of hand-puppetry. This is just another one of those much-maligned frivolous lawsuits that are cluttering our nation's courts. Lock 'em both up, that's what I say. DDP was worse than useless even when he was stinking up WCW rings on a regular basis, and Jay-Z is possibly the most overrated MC of all time (and, according to some, a "lying cocksmoker" to boot).

Further, DDP should watch out for lawsuits himself. A character in his new movie is named (oddly enough) "Fabulos," which this fellow might find rather actionable. This assumes, of course, that none of the parties involved can spell (and let's be real here: they can't).

Friday, December 08, 2006

Submitted for your approval: the music video for "Bad Man" by WWE's own John Cena. This particular little number features some auxillary cracker calling himself "Tha Trademarc" and legitimate underground legend Bumby Knuckles aka Freddie Foxx. Some marketing genius decided the way to keep Cena's rap career from being perceived as a joke was to stick him in an A-Team parody. Cena plays Hannibal, Tha Trademarc does Murdock, and Bumpy Knucks looks embarassed and uncomfortable as B.A. Baracus.

Apologies for how loud the Gary Coleman bits are. God only knows why these chiefs mixed his voice so high. I'm also puzzled as to why Bumpy Knuckles didn't murder Cena for that "After my verse, fast forward through the rest of the song" shit. In closing, let me state that Bumpy's line, "Your face is a cold, tight wad of blood and snot" is one of the best lyrics in any genre of music, EVER.

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Having dropped the ECW belt to Lashley after last Sunday's exercise in inertia, Paul "Big Show" Wight has announced his retirement from Professional Wrestling. Sort of. His stepping-down speech is filled with the usual McMahon-approved platitudes and code words: "Hiatus", "Time Off", "Break". That said, the general tone of Shew's speech is one of regret, pain, and loss. He talks about being in constant pain, the memories from his 11 years in th' business, and (shudder) his interest in an acting career. Comedies, specifically. I'm sure our older readers remember Shew's hilarious Fat Bastard impression from back in the day.

Anyhoo, just look in the man's eyes. This picture right here says it all. The man's life is torture. Let him rest. The Facebuster staff feel that Paul Wight deserves a respite from the agonies of professional grappling. He deserves hope. He deserves a life of his own. Farewell, Big Show. We wish you all the best.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

The esatablishment in question was the delightfully named "Jung Lung's Tiny Bubble Room." It was, in theory, a cocktail palace grafted onto a Chinese restaurant. It was actually a pitch-black, murder-filled hallway measuring approximately twenty feet long and four feet across. Two tables and a jukebox provided perfect hiding places for marauding Tong Hatchet Men. Two fifty-year-old women sat in the back, dressed up as pre-teen drag queens. A scowling figure sat at the bar, chain smoking. Every ten minutes, a disinterested waitress carried a steaming plate of pressed MSG from one end of the room to the other.

We sat at the bar and started setting up beer bottles (there were NO BEERS ON TAP). The bartender paid us little heed, wrapped as she was in a tale of violence and debauchery. "Shannon and Paul had a fight earlier," she explained to no one in particular. "She was throwing stools at him. I had to kick them out." Jesus Christ, I thought. Jesus fucking Christ. A flung stool in a space this small would be like a live grenade in a dumptruck. Someone must have been seriously hurt.

The atmosphere of simmering bloodshed jolted our pickled brains back to the matter at hand. It was still ten till the hour... the CAGE MATCH WAS STILL ON! We nervously began pestering the bartender to let us watch wrestling on the tiny TV that hung above the bar. She turned slowly toward it, as though noticing it for the first time. "Becker" was on.

"Sure, whatever," she said, and passed the remote... to the Smoking Man at the bar."What channel you want?" he croaked."Spike TV! Spike TV! Ah... we think it's... 57?"A nicotine-stained fingernail stabbed at the buttons. No dice. It was... I dunno. "Alias" or something. The man grunted and tossed the remote to the bar. We looked timidly at it. We looked at the clock. Five minutes of TV time remaining. Remote. TV. Clock. Remote."Can we just sort of surf around with that?" Von Fury's voice did a great job of not cracking with fear. The man grunted consentingly (we hoped).

Click. Click. Click. And there, on a screen the size of a piece of notebook paper, was the bloody BLOODY head of Christian Cage. There were some straightjacket antics. Some chair antics. the steady, reasurring drip of Christian's blood hitting the canvas. Five glorious minutes passed, and it was over.

We ordered a celebratory round of Michelob. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

And then the SECOND HOUR OF iMPACT! started. We gaped at each other. Had time come unstuck? Were they rerunning the whole damn show? AJ Styles, Christopher Daniels, and Chris Sabin started walloping on each other. It dawned on us that TNA had sprung for an additional hour to ring in their prime time debut. We began to rejoice.

The smoking man glared at the screen. "What the fuck is this?" he snarled, "Fuckin' Gay Boy Wrestling?"

As AJ Styles wrapped his bicycle-short-covered thighs around Chris Sabin's handsome face, we were forced to concede that it was, indeed Gay Boy Wrestling. And all was right with the world.

Monday, December 04, 2006

Greetings, loyal Arabian Facebuster readers. Last night's ECW PPV was debacle of epic proportions. It was Heroes of Wrestling bad. Its utter wretchedness motivated me to dig out my 1991 Great American Bash tape and watch it in its entirety...twice through. And then watch a replay of Election Night 2004 on CNN, despite voting for John Kerry like five or six times, to restore my faith in man. Per the advice of the Arabian Facebuster's Financial Planning Consultant, I would imagine that WWE shareholders (paging Pencil Neck Geek) were selling their stock en masse first thing this morn.

Granted, I didn't actually purchase D2D, let alone go to the local Hooter's and watch it with rubes of similar cognitive ability to these guys. Rather, I saw the results on the Internet last night. What were Vince and his merry band of dim witted sycophants thinking when they put this show together? CM Punk eliminated first in the elimination chamber? RVD pinned moments later? The baiting and switching of Sabu? Tommy Dreamer doing the job to Davari? Heel vs. heel mixed tag team action? Sandman relegated to a token beer swilling, Singapore cane swinging cameo? Matt Stryker in action? A new ECW Champion who wasn't even in the brand three weeks ago? Ending the PPV 40 minutes before the hour?

Since it is clear that Vincent Kennedy McMahon is hell bent on crushing the fond memories fans had for the old ECW and expunging the optimism they once held/patiently continue to hold for the relaunched version, I wanted to reach out to this leviathan of sports entertainment and provide him with a few suggestions on how to accelerate the fan apathy and antipathy, financial insolvency, and spectacular collapse of the most extreme brand in WWE Incorporated's sports entertainment portfolio; in short, to help him further sabotage and ultimately destroy his product and investment. Here are a few ideas off the top of my head...feel free to add more (hopefully they will be witty and funny, unlike the ones below) in the comments section.

1. Hotshot title change tomorrow night...Oh My God, the Mummy is new your new ECW Heavyweight Champion!2. Similar to the NWO on Monday Nitro, have Mike Knox and Renee Dupree take over all future episodes of ECW on Sci-Fi.3. Tonight on ECW...The Dungeon of Doom reunites!4. Have CM Punk wrestle in black-face.5. Pay off the Miz-BoogyMan feud in ECW with a series of 60 minute time limit draws.6. Hold a tournament to crown ECW Tag Team Champions. Have Rob Van Dam and Sabu put over cleanly and decisively the new titleholders...Brooke and Nick Hogan.7. Sign Raven. If he is unavailable, then bring in his talentless equivalent...Naked Mideon.8. Bring back Kelly's Expose and have her suggestively dance with Mae Young, the DX fat male stripper, and, of course, the entire McMahon family!9. Replace Taz(z) on color commentary with Ron Simmons.10. At the start of each show, replay the entire clip from RAW where Joey Styles "shoots" on the WWE's puerile storylines and all around contempt of professional wrestling to remind those viewers who have yet to abandon the product as to why ECW was (supposedly) relaunched in the first place.